Pink Cadillac
by nautical toilet
Summary: Carlisle leaves Purgatory in a testosterone-fueled fit of rage. Meanwhile, Edward has a date with his tweezers and some unruly ass hairs.


**Pink Cadillac**

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It happens on a chilly night in October.

Edward is in his bathroom, "taking a piss" while Bella sprawls over his bed, running her nose all over the quilt Esme stitched together for him. One might think, given the creator of the piece, Bella would be harboring a lesbian crush on her boyfriend's adoptive mother. In actuality, however, Bella is only getting a rush from the manly scent of Edward Cullen, whose odor has permeated these mattress, pillows and sheets so extensively no amount of Febreze will neutralize it. But that's quite all right with Bella, so long as her nose doesn't get quilt-burn.

As Bella scoots over Edward's bed like a dog with tapeworms, in the bathroom Edward Cullen stands poised above a tiny mirror with one foot up on the toilet and the other on the woolly toilet doilie. With his head over his shoulder, Edward carefully tweezes out excessive ass hairs, occasionally hissing in pain and dabbing a wad of toilet paper on the affected area. Sometimes he digs in too sharply and he yowls; from this Bella gets a wrong impression as she snaps shut the blinds and splays out on his bed with a giddy smile for April.

Striding down the hallway in his undershirt and boxers is Carlisle Cullen, who at this moment in time decides to use the bathroom as well. Too much raccoon blood the past two days has left him feeling sickly and, if he's still a doctor, a nasty case of dysentery. He scratches his stomach, and knocks on the door.

"Edward, are you in there? I have to take a shit, so please hurry up."

Carlisle folds his arms and leans against the doorframe.

Inside the bathroom Edward panics and yowls as he has two hundred thrity-six more ass hairs to tweeze before he can leave the bathroom. Plus, there are still neary six hundred he has left forgotten around his scrotum. But he can save that for a rainy day. "Uh, just a minute, okay?" Edward yelps in a high-pitched voice as he gets the last hair for the day (or moment, depending on what happens in the near future that might affect Edward's sneaky plans).

"That's fine," Carlisle says, "sometimes that stuff ... happens." His own stomach gurgles to remind him.

Ah, but so it turns out, that Edward spends the rest of the evening in the bathroom (on the tub with a better view; a deeper deposit) with his tweezers expertly maneuvered tightly clasped between his thumb and index finger. Carlisle, expectantly, has waited for nearly two hours for Edward to poke his head out the bathroom door and _at least_ tell him how long he's going to be in there.

"Almost done, Ed?"

"What're you doing in there, Ed? Waxing your ass?" (Carlisle accompanies this with a worried little laugh.)

"Damn it, Ed, I've got to take a shit!"

Almost three and a half hours have gone on and Carlisle is now furious. He's ready to break down the bathroom door and toss Edward out the window, but he's half afraid that Edward might be in there, sodomizing himself with a bottle of shampoo -- or worse, one of Rosalie's Pleasure Pals (four and a half inches in diameter; seven and a quarter in length). They're commonly borrowed in the household when either Carlisle, Emmett or Jasper (or all) have broken a law or when the moon is waning and so are the critters stored in their boxers. A naturally occurring phenomenon for vampire males, Carlisle explains nearly every night to Esme.

Carlisle smooshes his ear to the door to listen; there is no light buzzing sound, no light bucking sound, no sound of panting. For this he is especially grateful, considering his doubt with Edward sometimes. Edward really makes him doubt a lot. Carlisle first started doubting Edward in the 1980's when he didn't take up a pseudo-incestuous relationship with one of his adoptive siblings. At every mention of this, Edward shrugs and says, "Look, I have Bella."

"Fuck you, Ed!" Carlisle sneers as he springs himself into the hallway and swaggers down it.

He knows Bella is in Edward's bedroom, but he is certain that she isn't in his adjoining bathroom. No one knows, but Edward has gone to the family bathroom for its excellent lighting; his sucks ass in the lighting department. He may as well just have tweezed his ass in a dark broom closet. (He has tried other things with his ass in a dark broom closet, just not tweezing. Please do not tell Carlisle, or Bella for that matter.)

"Knock, knock," Carlisle coos as best as an angry man can as he knocks on Edward's door.

On a goofy little chalkboard hanging on a hook, spelled out in alphabet magnets says, 'Stay out! Edward's room!' Soon Carlisle plays around with it because Bella isn't answering and it's obvious that Bella must be in the adjoining bathroom, taking a sit-down on the ol' throne of Edward's. Boy, it must feel good to take a crap on your boyfriend's toilet, knowing his ass has been there before yours. Little does Carlisle know that Bella is not, in fact, taking a crap on her boyfriend's toilet.

Rather, he learns, when his patience grows short, that Bella is lighting candles and stroking herself when he enters. He is so overcome with so many emotions -- desire, disgust, confusion -- as he watches his seventeen-year-old soon-to-be daughter-in-law convulse on the bed as if she's having an epileptic seizure. What he notices, besides her wet and naked core, is that she hasn't called a name out for someone. A man like Carlisle takes this two ways: either he has finally reached _that_ age and requires a hearing aid, OR he has found a lovely, unimprinted girl.

"Bella," he asks, "do you have a sore throat?"

She looks up at him owlishly after licking off her fingers and nods. (She has no shame, looking up at him like that after wanking.) "Dr. Cullen, it hurts."

Carlisle is both disgusted and delighted to find himself hankering some good old-fashioned roleplay with a minor. He intends to rush off to get his stethoscope when Bella stretches out her cumbersome feet and sets his head right between her legs. His face begins to turn a very bright shade of scarlet.

"Bella! Let me go!" He struggles like a cat with its head in a cone.

For a seventeen-year-old girl, she's surprisingly strong, locking him into the crux of her legs with a hazy grin. His amber eyes rove up to meet her chocolate-y brown ones with maybe, just maybe, a little unintentional senselessness in them. His eyelashes flicker when she smoothes her hand through his hair and -- _whack!_ -- he finds his mouth kissing her lower mouth, saliva dripping from both parties. "Bella, you're digusting," he murmurs into the mouth without a tongue or teeth. "You're a nasty little girl, Bella."

"Carlisle --"

He draws back. "Ah, ah, ah!"

"_Dr._ Cullen, it aches. Will you check and make sure it's okay?"

Carlisle regards Bella with a kind of eye that a naturalist would take while observing a bitch in heat rubbing her hind end against his chair: should I interact or not? His little buddy stowed away in his boxers is shaking his head adamantly, "Yes, yes!" But his brain propagates his wife (current image: Esme peeling off her boyshorts and bra, slipping on her favorite teddy and settling down to read _West Coast Living_ under the covers). His brain mistakenly has yet to uncover his desires and Carlisle is swayed in the direction of adultery with someones(s) a little younger, perkier, cuter (past image: 1984, Alice and Rosalie attending his cock while Esme takes the boys out for "ice cream" -- they're feeding off their Oedipus complexes).

"Please, Dr. Cullen?" Bella implores him with a pout.

"Only," he breathes into her spottily-shaven vulva, "if you'll promise not to tell your parents or legal guardians."

"So it shall be done!" Bella whoops.

Her swollen ankles (God willing, he will investigate why soon enough) hitch around his neck tightly as he maneuvers his tongue in knots and pretzels (if he were so talented, he would do one of the Eiffel tower) all the while Bella quakes and gasps with sexual delight. Soon it is over, and Bella is snoozing peacefully on Carlisle's shoulder. No penetration tonight, dear -- we'll leave that for a day when Edward is once again plucking his ass hairs.

"Joining us for dinner then?" Carlisle asks, squeezing from Bella's embrace.

"Yeah," she murmurs.

Something oddly sweet happens when he lets her head flop off his shoulder and onto the pillow; her lips peel back like a donkey's and, rather than braying, she gives her thanks very sleepily. It was good. Very good. Better than anything Edward and I have not done. Thank you gain, Carlisle, for making my life a little more livable. That's what he imagines she would've said, anyway. He hopes someday he'll get to put more than words in her mouth.

Dinner comes around, with Esme frying ham in her bathrobe, a cigarette poking from her slightly yellowed teeth. The ham steaks, once done, are still very underdone because Esme hasn't taken the cucumbers from her eyes yet (also, but tell no one because it could be easily mistaken for gristle, the mud mask has somewhat dripped from her chin). She fills the glasses with ice -- a table set for eight -- and wrings hers hands out achingly (an athritic response even for a century-something-year-old). "Damn kids. Where the hell's Alice when you need to her see what's on channel 46 this evening? Sure as hell wished I still had my subscription to TV Guide."

In swoops the rest of the kids from a woodsy excursion, smelling like deer-in-heat urine and slightly like the woodsy woods themselves -- clean, piney and fragrant. But it's all sort of cancelled out by the stink of deer piss. Once and for all, Esme is going to school the Cullen children in mosquito spraying. "Your father's hunting supplies are NOT to be used on excursions!" she'll shriek. For old curmudgeons living in teenage bodies, they sure are unproductive.

She leans over her ugly, stainless steel sink and squirts some Dawn in there, runs some water and voila; "Wash your hands in here, kids!"

Nobody really complains about the ham steaks except Bella, who is unforunately human and can't enjoy the pleasures of raw cuisine like vampires can. "Could I have some pasta, instead?" she asks hopefully, but Esme says 'no.' Go back to your own house, brat, and cook your father and yourself some _cooked_ steaks. Be a biggy girl and get the hell out of my house!

"I think there's a can of bean sprouts in the pantry, if you're so hungry," Esme informs Bella with a disarming smile, cucumbers still intact.

Bella shrugs okay and leaves them at their vampiric feast. Suddenly everyone in the room turns voracious and starts wolfing down his or her food. Carlisle actually sucks the blood straight from the ham steak and throws it out the window for a werewolf maybe (God knows they're financially decrepit, selling all those dreamcatchers to airheaded tourists visiting the reservation). Esme, still retaining some of her humanity, snacks on her cucumbers between drippings.

Edward, still plucking the hairs from his ass, hears sobbing coming from th the pantry with his highly perceptive ears. Sounds like Bella. He continues tweezing his ass hairs -- perhaps tomorrow he'll get to his scrotum!

Carlisle, who is fit to burst with pig blood (had he been there when Carrie's bucket fell ... ), gets up and heads for the bathroom, finally. But he doesn't feel regretful, such an eventful night full of sexual perversion and delight deserves to be remembered with rose-colored glasses.

He tromps through the hall to his bedroom, whereupon he hears sobbing in the pantry. That's right. Bella's been foraging for the nonexistent bean sprouts Esme has told her about so meanly, so cruelly. But he's surprised, when the pantry door folds open, that Bella's in there spitting bean sprouts at a deflated beachball (the product of vampire-family-beach day and enthusiastic supernatural athletes).

"Poor girl," he says sympathetically.

Bella whimpers like a little dog caught in a bear trap.

"Aw, aw, aw," he sniffles as he snatches up his keys. "We're getting the hell out of the rathole!" he proclaims.

He grabs Bella by the arm and they burst through the front door with such tangible fury that Esme and the others gather the kitchen window to gawk. Until Emmett begins to fiddle around with Esme's back robe pocket, they remain silent.

"Good God! What in the hell are they doing?" Esme cries out. She no longer has cucumbers over her eyes.

"It looks like they're leaving ... to the 7/11?" says Emmett slowly.

"Quick, Alice, Rosalie! Go inform Edward!"

They leave in a flash.

So do Bella and Carlisle when they're safely buckled in (while Carlisle might not be coherent in the ways of U.S. sexual laws, he certainly is happy to conform to state laws, so that he willn't be pulled over for a ticket -- he has the cleanest driving record in Washington state!)

"You and I, Bella," he says in an eerily determined voice as he revs up the engine, "are going on a road trip."

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